


Heat Wave

by blackmare, Nightdog_Barks



Category: House M.D.
Genre: End of the World, Fever, Friendship, Gen, Major Illness, Sick Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-26
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2018-05-09 09:39:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5535068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackmare/pseuds/blackmare, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nightdog_Barks/pseuds/Nightdog_Barks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the end of the world as we know it, and everything's fine.  Really, it is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Close enough but not too far ...

**Author's Note:**

> **Title:** Heat Wave  
>  **Authors:** and .  
>  **Characters:** House, Wilson, Cuddy, original characters  
>  **Rating:** PG-13  
>  **Warnings:** No  
>  **Spoilers:** None  
>  **Author Notes:** This is a two-part story. The second part will be posted on New Year's Eve. Cut-text is from Talking Heads "Burning Down the House."  
>  **Intrepid Readers:** (although it changed a little after she read it, so)

_**Heat Wave** _

"What are you doing?" House says, although it's pretty obvious what Wilson is doing with that silvery tri-fold contraption. 

And sure enough, Wilson says "What does it look like I'm doing? I'm getting a tan," and he adjusts the foil just a tad so that the reflection shines more evenly on his jawline.

It's the last summer on Earth, and they're on the hospital roof with a pitcher of vodka martinis. It's warm in the sun, with the tar baking off, and it's reminding House of the time he spent working for the State of Florida when he was sixteen, patching potholes on US 41. There had been a woman there, a blue uniform, supervisor of something or other. She'd worn aviator glasses, had dark hair, a sweet laugh, a Spanish name ... House relaxes into the memory and is just beginning to drift into a pleasant nap when he hears the soft _skritch!_ of a match.

"What are you doing _now?_ " he grumbles, although this is just as obvious as before. Wilson takes a long drag on his cigarette.

"Smoking," he says. He blows the smoke out and it hangs in the sunlit air. "Should've started this a long time ago," he mumbles.

"Yeah," House says. "Would have been great, except for that whole lung-cancer thing."

Wilson laughs. He holds the cigarette between thumb and forefinger, inspecting it. 

"Well," he says, and replaces the cigarette between his lips, talking around it. "What does that matter now?"

And there's really no answer to that question, so House doesn't.

* * *

The news had come four months ago, although no one was really sure what the news was, only that it was bad. The sun had a mote in its great golden eye and was dying. Or it was getting hotter. The Earth was going to blacken to a cinder. The Earth was going to freeze in a giant globular popsicle. Either way it was doomsday. If House really thinks about it, which he doesn't like to do, it reminds him of the _Twilight Zone_ episode from when he was a kid, the one where you _thought_ you knew what was happening until the very end when Rod Serling pulled the rug out from under you. The bastard.

* * *

House stands in the _California/Chile_ aisle of the liquor store, trying to decide between a Cabernet and a Cabernet.

"Hello!" one of the wine guys says brightly. "Can I help you find something today?"

It's not the wine guy House has talked to in the past, the guy with hornrim glasses who's _almost_ tolerable.

"You're not the guy," House says, and this guy blinks. "You're not the guy I usually talk to," House clarifies, and why he's even bothering with this he can't say.

The wine guy -- _Leopold_ , his name tag says, and who the hell names their kid _Leopold?_ \-- blinks again. Then his eyes brighten and his expression clears.

"Oh, you must mean _Anthony!_ " he says. "Yeah, Anthony!"

"Anthony."

"Like in the prayer, you know," Leopold hastens to explain. "The lost things prayer."

House stares at him.

" _You_ know," Leopold insists. _"Something's lost and can't be found; please, Saint Anthony, look around."_

"Uh _huh_ ," House says.

"Well," Leopold says. He shifts a little on his feet, seems suddenly to remember he's in a liquor store, aisles full of bottles of dark wine with fanciful labels. "Well. He's ... not here anymore, sir. He went to Canada." His eyes flick once, toward the overhead sign reading _Brandy/Cognac/Port/Sherry_. "Canada," Leopold repeats. "It's cooler there."

House decides to forego the Cabernet and buys a bottle of bourbon instead, but when he gets home there's no ice in the freezer and he has to drink it neat.

It burns his throat going down.

* * *

"Why is everyone going to Canada?" House says.

Cuddy doesn't look up from her paperwork. "It's cooler there," she says. Now she does glance up, one appraising look, then returns her attention to Form 1060-1A. "Why? Are you thinking about going?"

"What?" House deadpans. "And leave this tropical paradise?"

It's dark in her office, and _almost_ cool, with the shutters closed again the sun.

* * *

There are ice cream places opening in what used to be shoe stores or cell phone shops. Lines form, lines of wilted people with their faded umbrellas reflecting watery heat waves back at the burning sky.

He thinks he'll grab a couple cones, a cherry for himself and a butter pecan for Wilson, and then he remembers it'll melt before he gets back to the hospital, and then he remembers Wilson isn't there anymore. Why does he keep forgetting? He'd gone to Wilson's office, then his apartment, and they'd both been the same -- empty rooms, no furniture, no Wilson.

_Canada_ , says the building manager.

Was it yesterday? Maybe it was last week.

He gets two cones anyway.

As he comes out of the makeshift shop -- it wasn't here last week and there may not be a next week -- a little girl stands bawling on the sidewalk. Damp curls are flattened against her forehead, and her face is tinged blue by the light coming through her tattered Spongebob parasol. She is wailing for her mommy, who seems not to be around.

_Canada_ , House thinks, barely pausing his stride. Mommy probably caught the last train north.

He's at the doors of PPTH when it dawns on him that he's got two hands full of rapidly melting ice cream, and no cane. And no limp. It's been how long since he last took a pill? He keeps forgetting that, too. 

He eats the second cone out of spite. Fuck Wilson, leaving without him like that. They probably don't even have butter pecan in Canada.

* * *

House goes back to the liquor store, but his new best friend Leopold isn't there. Not only is Leopold not there, _nobody's_ there. The liquor bottles -- gin, vodka, tequila -- glitter down the long aisles. The _empty_ aisles.

"Hello?," House says, just to hear himself. "Hello?" The red eye of a security camera blinks at him, and he waves at the lens. He keeps waving, faster and faster, and has to make himself stop.

* * *

The Oncology lounge is empty, too, but its sofa -- provided by Wilson and therefore truly comfortable -- remains, and so does the nice big TV, and thus it's an ideal place to sit and drink the bottle of bourbon he maybe stole, or maybe simply took. It's hard to tell the difference anymore.

The television works, but there are only a handful of stations still on the air, and half of those are broadcasting live from abandoned studios, the cameras forgotten or deliberately left rolling, aimed at empty desks and chairs.

Somewhere in Canada, it turns out, the crew from CNN soldiers on.

House sips at his last glass of bourbon as he watches the last TV broadcast on Earth. He knows this because CNN keeps running a crawl in bright red panic-mode letters at the bottom of the screen saying _LAST BROADCAST ON EARTH_. 

"We're at the North Pole, and it's our last broadcast on Earth!" Wolf Blitzer declares, adding to the redundancy rumpus. 

The North Pole looks awfully warm for this time of year -- the crowds of people behind good old Wolf are in various stages of undress, wearing everything from shorts to bikinis to full-body wetsuits. Most of them are celebrating, drinking alcoholic beverages in neon-bright colors with tiny parasols stuck in the glasses. Far in the background, white blobs with black noses amble around on the green grass; House supposes they may be bewildered polar bears. He hopes half-heartedly that one of them will eat Wolf Blitzer.

"Our science correspondents are telling us," Wolf proclaims, then pauses to take a healthy slurp from a straw of what appears to be a frozen strawberry daiquiri, "our science correspondents are telling us that there's less than an hour left until -- "

But whatever might happen in that _less than an hour_ is lost as the TV suddenly fades to black, Wolf and the polar bears and the celebrants at the end of the world all gone as the picture dwindles to a tiny white dot and then disappears completely.

Ideally, House would like to just stay here, drinking until the sky fills up with the biggest barbecue ever, but he can't. His glass is empty and so is the bottle.

So he might as well go out and face whatever's out there.

* * *

The north side of the university campus is as deserted as everywhere else. Not everything is gone, though -- birds are singing, and a pair of squirrels follow him from a safe distance, hoping for peanuts or popcorn or some other human treat.

He's approaching Firestone Library, its double-arched doors outlined in sharp black shadows, when he sees the elderly man standing on the steps of the harp sculpture out front. Somehow House is not surprised that it's his father.

"What do you think of this?" John House gestures toward the sculpture. "This ... thing?"

"It's a Jacques Lipchitz," House says. 

The old man shakes his head. "Lipchitz, shitchitz," he grumbles. "Modern crap." He turns away, the Cubist work beneath his contempt.

"You'll never find it," he says to House.

House sighs. "Never find what, Dad?"

John House shakes his head again. "You'll never find it," he repeats.

The birds have stopped singing. The wind rises.

House feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, the hairs on his arms prickle.

_It's coming_ , he thinks, even as the sky cracks open, even as the light blinds him to everything, a photo flash so bright he shields his eyes and squints against the shadows.

_It's coming it's coming it's coming --_

* * *

Wilson's face hovers above his own, except Wilson is wearing ... a white feather boa ... no, wait, it's a hood, a red hood with a white fur ruff. Wilson's ...

"Esk'mo," House rasps, and _god_ , his throat is so dry and sore. "Wils'n."

"What?" Wilson says. "House? Are you awake?"

"Wilson," House says, but maybe it's only in his mind that he says it. "You went to Canada. The North Pole. You killed a polar bear."

_Are you listening to yourself?_ an exasperated voice in his head says. _Wilson killed a polar bear?_

"Eskimo," House says, _clearly_ , he hopes. "You ... you went to Canada. Became an _Eskimo_."

Wilson sighs. "As much fun as that sounds, I didn't go to Canada. I've been here the whole time."

Somewhere a choir is singing, children's voice and chiming hand-bells.

_Hell_ , House thinks. _I'm in Hell, and that's the Hell choir._

He tries to reach for Wilson's fur ruff; his hand trembles, but Wilson takes it and guides it gently to the white fur ... which isn't real fur. It takes House a moment to see it, but when he does, it all becomes clear.

"Ho ho ho," Wilson says with a crooked smile, because Wilson isn't an Eskimo.

He's Santa Claus.

"I promised the kids," Wilson says.

"You promised the kids," House repeats, still stuck on processing the possibility that James Wilson is actually a jolly fat man with a pack of reindeer.

"The Oncology kids," Wilson says.

"The Oncology kids," House says.

"For Christmas," Wilson says. "Next week is Christmas, House. Santa RSVP'd for the party for the kids."

House isn't terribly surprised. Wilson would do anything for the Pediatric Oncology patients, up to and including shaving his head one memorable year in _solidarity_ with one of the Lollipop League Cancer Guild Munchkins. Still, he has to make sure.

"So," House says, " ... the Earth isn't falling into the Sun? It's not 134 degrees outside?"

Wilson blinks. "I think I'd have noticed if it was." He nods toward the window. "And I don't believe it would be snowing."

House turns his head. Slowly. Everything aches, and his joints need oiling. Fat white flakes drift past the window.

"This is real," House murmurs. "Is this real?"

"It's real," Wilson says. "House, it's real." He still has hold of House's hand.

He could hold it forever, as far as House is concerned.

 

_**to be continued December 31st** _


	2. Strange but not a stranger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the end of the world as we know it, and maybe, just maybe, the beginning of something new.

_**Heat Wave (Part Two)** _

 

He'd woken a second time to find that the snow, which had been white against a soft gray sky, was now white against black: night had fallen.

You were in an accident, Wilson said. You were in an accident because you were sick, because you caught something from your patient, and House knew the effects must have been lingering because he didn't ask, _What did he have?_

He assumed he'd find out soon enough.

"You blacked out and drove your car through the front window of the New Lotus Chinese Express. Luckily, you didn't kill anyone."

House perked up. "Did they give me free spring rolls?"

"Which reminds me, your MRI was clear, but we haven't ruled out brain damage."

"I haven't ruled out 'I'm actually still comatose.' Spring rolls would help convince me."

But no, no. Blah blah five weeks blah blah, seizures, vent, feeding tube, not ready, I'll get you some applesauce, you've lost a lot of weight, House.

So had Wilson, now that he mentioned it.

"What happened to my patient?" House asked.

The light bounced off Wilson's round window-glass Santa spectacles.

"He died," Wilson said.

"Fifty percent mortality," House said. "Not bad," and then his weariness had dragged him under again.

* * *

Waking for the third time, he finds Wilson still there, if considerably less Santafied. His white lab coat seems to glow against House's blue blanket.

"Had the strangest dream, and you were in it." House stops, realizing he's perilously close to reciting the entire ending to _The Wizard of Oz_ , and anyway Wilson is asleep, slouched forward onto the bed, and can't hear him.

Wilson's hand is still warm on his.

_How long was I out?_ House thinks. Hours? A few minutes? No, longer than that, or Wilson would still be both awake and red, white, and furry.

Did anything feel this real when he thought the earth was falling into the sun? He isn't sure.

He still has the snow; he still has Wilson.

"Wake up," he says, squeezing Wilson's hand until Wilson sighs and yawns. "I want spring rolls, dammit."

He knows he can't have them, but that's almost the point. First, ask for the thing Wilson has to refuse. After that, the rest will seem more reasonable. "I almost died; I deserve that much." 

"No spring rolls," Wilson says, and there's the cue.

"Pho," House says.

"Well, that _is_ soup," Wilson says. "But no."

"Steak," House says. "Medium rare. With a baked potato."

"No," Wilson says.

"Roast suckling pig," House says. "With an apple in its mouth."

Wilson's eyes narrow. "No."

"Breakfast at Mickey's, with buttermilk pan-- "

_"House!"_

"But I'm _hungry_ ," House whines, and it's true. He certainly didn't eat anything in Solar Apocalypse Dreamland. "I missed Thanksgiving! And President's Day. And Hanukkah. And the Solstice. And Hanukkah."

House pauses. Wilson is staring at him.

"I could name more," House says. "Including six more Hanukkahs."

"Fine," Wilson says. "Okay. Just to thank you for not dying on me, I'll take you to dinner when you're ready. Anywhere you choose."

"Peter Luger or bust," House says, testing the waters. "And then we go home, to the loft you bought for us before Hurricane Sam devastated your coastline."

"That's ... okay. Okay. Done."

"And that's all? I'm not some cheap date, you know."

"No, but you are a greedy bastard. What else could you want?"

Sensing victory, House dives off the deep end. "A smooch."

"A _what?_ No. No, House, I -- "

"Wilson," House says. Wilson stops, but his expression still says _No_.

"Wilson," House says again. "Look at me. I'm _alive._ "

And maybe, just maybe, that's enough.

Wilson sits back, raises both hands in mock defeat.

"A smooch. You ... sure. Why not. A thank-you-for-not-croaking, good night kiss. Can I go back to sleep now? Or can you?"

"Not until you promise, and I don't mean some half-assed little peck. We're getting prime rib for dinner, I don't want tofu for dessert."

"I don't serve tofu," Wilson answers. "Ever."

That's the spirit, House thinks, and he wonders how far he can push this. Promise?, he says. And Wilson, genetically incapable of backing down from a ludicrous challenge, says yes. _Cross my heart and hope to die_ , he adds, with a sardonic roll of those brown eyes, and while House doesn't think that's anywhere in the Hippocratic Oath, he'll take it.

* * *

"Are you sure?" Wilson says. He dabs at the corners of his mouth with his napkin, the white cloth crushed in his hand. "You're still recovering from five weeks as a rutabaga, and they said they're taking the mistletoe down tomorrow."

Some of the New Year's decorations are coming down already, in the corner where half of Radiology was playing drunken balloon-ball. Lou the Janitor poked his head through the double doors just long enough to survey the littered floor, the rumpled tablecloths and guttering votives. He'd muttered something obscene and told them to lock up when they left. They'll have to, because everyone else is long gone.

House takes another sip of wine. _Technically_ , he's not supposed to be drinking yet, but Wilson hasn't said anything and House isn't going to bring it up.

"And Foreman was born with a tragic fun impairment that made him throw a New Year's 'Rockin' Like Grandma in her Recliner' Eve Party, and our table at Peter Luger won't be ready for ten more days. But you know what? I'm okay with life not being perfect. What I want to know is, why do you care if it's coming down? You're Jewish, last time I looked. Mistletoe's a heathen parasite."

Wilson's eyebrows go up. "I thought _you_ wanted it. After all, you're a hea-- "

"Hey!" House protests. _"Hey!_ Words hurt, you know."

At first he thinks Wilson might come back with _"The truth hurts,"_ but instead Wilson says, "So you don't want mistletoe."

"I don't _care_ if there's mistletoe," House clarifies. "There's a difference."

"Besides," he continues, "you're seriously talking about mistletoe instead of why the hell I would _want_ to kiss you?”

“I assumed it was my charming personality.” Having finished the tiramisu they pilfered from an abandoned catering cart, Wilson holds up the back of his spoon, preening at his reflection on the steel. He does look good in that tux, even now, a little crinkled and with that evening stubble just showing on his face.

“You’re giving your persona too much credit, and your ass not nearly enough.”

“Well, I don’t actually see my ass that often. Would you feel better if I crafted the mistletoe into a Star of David?”

House thinks about it, probably for a few seconds too long.

"What?" Wilson says. "What?"

"Nothing," House says. "I'm just trying to imagine Moses with a staff of mistletoe." His expression brightens. "Hey," he says. "Hey! A staff! You get it? A -- "

"No," Wilson says firmly. _"No."_

“You’ll stand right next to me at the urinal," -- he pronounces it in his faux British accent, the one Wilson hates, _u-RYE-nal_ , drawing out the "rye" in a nasal drone that rises and falls -- "but a mistletoe phallic symbol is too much for you?”

“Moses would look like he was wrestling kudzu. You think all faith is nonsense, but a Jew beneath mistletoe is too much for you?”

"A Jew beneath a moose was too much for me."

"And yet you were able to diagnose galactorrhea. Breast milk from the _popliteal fossa_."

House ignores him. "You waved your antler at me."

Wilson is caught speechless.

"I ... "

“I can’t help it that your mind was warped when you were a kid. Probably all that crapola '70s TV. Somewhere in there, a tiny dim part of your brain will be telling you this is wrong. Not a great start to my mission of getting you to bed.”

“Ah. And you can’t start somewhere else, of course. Mistletoe or bust.”

“The mistletoe was your ridiculous idea, because you’re not taking this seriously,” House gripes. He scowls at his wineglass, which has had the gall to become almost empty. At this rate he may have to break out his flask.

Wilson almost -- but not quite -- laughs. " _I'm_ not taking this seriously? You don’t stand on ceremony. If you wanted … that, you’d have tried it. Instead of trying to freak me out like this was a seventh-grade locker room.”

"Has it occurred to you that I never tried it before because you never promised me you would before?"

"I --," Wilson begins.

"Promised," House repeats. "You said you'd buy me dinner as soon as I could have it, and you'd stay with me, and I asked for one more thing. Which you foolishly thought I didn't mean."

"Well, you had just accused me of becoming an Eskimo. Your mental competence was questionable at the time."

House can always tell a split second before Wilson himself realizes it that he's changed his mind and let the armor of Sir James the Respectable fall. And House sees it now: Wilson's eyes brightening as he scoots his chair back, his shoulders hunching subtly forward in anticipation, the first easy step he takes toward House's side of the table.

"You always keep your promises," House says. "Well, except the ones that end in, 'til death do us part'. Good thing I'm not asking you to -- "

"Shut up, House."

"No."

"Then get up."

"You're not going to hit me again, are you? Because I remember that one time -- "

"Shut up," Wilson says again, and House does.

Wilson's fingers slip under House's collar, under the band of House's black bow tie, and tug upward, the same little gesture that usually means "come here." And House guesses it still does. 

He stands, tries to stand, his legs shaky at first ( _you've only been out of the hospital a week!_ , his brain helpfully explains), then strong.

Wilson's face is close. So close.

"You were so concerned," Wilson murmurs. "So concerned about ... " His hand dips inside his tuxedo jacket, begins to draw something out --

\-- and House's brain shuts down.

Bright sunlight on a roof, the reek of melting tar ...

_"What are you doing?" House says, although it's pretty obvious what Wilson is doing with that silvery tri-fold contraption._

A strand of silver tinsel curled in a ring around Wilson's forefinger --

_"What are you doing now?" he grumbles, although this is just as obvious as before. Wilson takes a long drag on his cigarette._

Two ends of a red ribbon pinched gently beneath Wilson's thumb --

_I'm not dreaming._ House's head hurts, his knees ache. A shiver runs down his spine. 

_I'm not dreaming, I'm awake, it's New Year's and I'm not in a coma and this isn't the Twilight Zone._

Something green, and if ... then it means Wilson thought and he planned --

_Is it?_

"So concerned," Wilson says, "about ... mistletoe."

A green sprig. White berries. Demonstrably fake. In Wilson's hand.

"You ... you," House begins, but can't find the words. "You conniving little _schemer_. You've been screwing with me. You planned this. You _wanted_ this."

The expression on Wilson's face tells him everything.

"The minute I mentioned it," House says, his voice gathering strength, "you whipped out your Eagle Scout Handbook and ... prepared. Just like you do for blackouts, or flat tires, or blizzards."

Wilson at least has the decency to look sheepish.

"But are you complaining?" he says.

House considers the question, examines it from every angle.

"No," he says. "But ... just a minute." His voice is surprisingly steady. Wilson raises an eyebrow.

"Promise me," House says. He remembers the heat, the sun warm on his skin, a statue in a courtyard.

_You'll never find it._ A voice in his head, already fading.

Wilson waits. The guilty, manipulative, _beautiful_ bastard.

_No, Dad. I never lost it._

"Promise me," House says. "Promise me ... you're not Rod Serling." 

Wilson raises an eyebrow. _Both_ eyebrows.

"I promise," Wilson says. "I'm not Rod Serling, House. Just me. Always." 

And for now, that's enough.

 

~ fin


End file.
